Misunderstandings
by sweetly-cruel
Summary: A daft short story about everyone's favourite couple (apart from HarryHermione shippers), RH. Rated PG just in case, because of some mild swearing. Spoilers for Order of the Phoenix, but you've all read it already, haven't you? : ) Please RR!
1. Complicated

Disclaimer: they ain't mine (just in case you didn't know!) The very talented JK Rowling created the characters.

AN: this is my first HP fic, which explains its overall crappiness. I hope to write something a bit more dramatic later at some point, but for now I thought I'd leave you with a daft love story. A little mush never hurt anyone, did it? Please, please, PLEASE review – that's the whole reason I'm writing this. I want to know what's okay and what can be improved. The story's told from Ron's viewpoint.

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"You what?"

"I hexed Malfoy."

"You _what_?"

So now, our dear friend Draco has got a case of acne on a par with poor old Marietta Edgecombe."

"You WHAT?"

"Why do you keep saying the same thing over and over, Hermione?"

She threw him a look of irritation mingled with contempt and attempted to lose herself in _How To Gain A NEWT in Charms _once more.

Ron continued his tale, undeterred.

"It was a bloody impressive piece of magic, if I do say so myself," he remarked loftily. "I wish Fred and George had seen it; they'd have been begging me to teach them how to –"

"They probably know how to drench people's faces in spots already, given the number of innocent First Years they attacked last year," she pointed out tartly.

"They didn't attack them! They were _consenting testers for the new joke shop products_," explained Ron, as though Hermione was the single stupidest form of life that he'd ever encountered. Which was ironic, really, since that was the exact same way that she appeared to think of him. "Those First Years knew the risks, didn't they? That girl whose thumb turned into a marshmallow for a few minutes, that wasn't Fred and George's fault. And they sorted it out in the end, didn't even need Madame Pomfrey's help –"

"Just out of interest, Ron," interrupted Harry idly, folding up his issue of _The Quibbler_ and placing it on the table beside him, his attention now free to listen in on Ron and Hermione's conversation in full, "where did you learn that jinx? I never taught you anything about giving people acne in DA, that's for sure."

"You should have, it would've made a lot more people want to join," Ron replied cheerfully "No, the DA lessons inspired me to do a bit more research into Defence Against The Dark Arts." He raised his chin proudly.

"_You've_ never been inspired to do anything before in your life, Ron Weasley," scoffed Hermione curtly, "especially nothing that involved extra work." Ron suspected that her lethal temper was due to fleeting fears that he might be planning to become more interested in his studies – her magical ability was one of the few things that she held over him – because there was a certain trepidation in her voice as she asked him, "You're not really serious about Defence Against The Dark Arts, are you? I mean, you were only trying to find out how to give Malfoy acne, weren't you?"

Ron smiled smugly. "That's where you're wrong, Hermione. I think that I'm well on the road to becoming… an _Auror_ when I'm older."

He anticipated some kind of admiration from his two friends – well, admiration from Harry, but a sarcastic comment from Hermione – but all that Harry did was twist around ninety degrees in his seat to face Hermione and quip, "He gives Malfoy a few spots and he reckons he's Auror material."

They both laughed somewhat cruelly as Ron crossed his arms across his chest and snarled, "Oh, yeah, go ahead and snigger. I'll bet Mad-Eye Moody started off by giving people acne."

"No," Hermione shot back, as her face reverted to its former stoniness, "Moody has more sense than to go about hexing people for no reason! What were you _thinking_, Ron?"

"What?" he shot back, suddenly indignant. "Merlin's beard, Hermione, you've become pretty haughty all of a sudden! We argue with Malfoy _all the time_. You wake up in the morning, what's the first thing you hear? One of arguing with Malfoy. You go for breakfast, what's the first thing you hear? One of us arguing with –"

"Okay, okay, I get your point, Ron," she snapped impatiently. "We – argue – with – Malfoy – a – lot. But none of us have ever attacked him for no reason before!"

"Who needs a reason? He's a git!"

"What did he do to you to make you hex him?"

"It's more the fact that he _exists_, Hermione," countered Ron bluntly.

Harry, Ron observed with interest, visibly flinched at this. Ron briefly pondered what it was that had unnerved him, but his attention was abruptly diverted by Hermione's harsh tone of voice.

"Did you not _listen_," she seethed, "to what the Sorting Hat said at the beginning of last year?"

"Of course we listened," retorted Ron, "but you were the only one who had the foggiest idea what it was talking about!"

"The houses need to stick together," she insisted firmly. "At a time like this, we need solidarity."

"Solidarity with the Slytherins," spat Ron in disgust. "I've heard it all now."

"Maybe we don't need to become best friends with them, but that doesn't mean that we should attack them for the sake of it."

"It wasn't just 'for the sake of it,'" mumbled Ron.

"Why, then?"

"Because he's a git."

"It would be nice if _I_ could jinx everyone that I met and thought to be a git," Hermione griped. "I'd have jinxed you so many times that you'd be a nervous wreck by now. But _I_, unlike you, am a responsible person. What do you think will happen when the teachers find out?"

"They won't be finding out for a long while," sniggered Ron, "Malfoy won't be leaving his dormitory until he's got his hands on some skin cream."

Hermione jammed her Charms book into her already bulging schoolbag and slung the bag over her back. "I don't know why I even _try_ to get sense out of you, Ron," she complained, getting to her feet. "I'm going to bed."

As she stormed out of the Gryffindor common room, Ron let out a highly vexed sigh. "Did she swallow a dragon egg or something?" he grumbled to Harry. "Hermione Granger: defender of the Slytherins. As if she gives a stuff about Malfoy; she's only trying to start a row."

"Ron," Harry spoke up uncertainly, "what _did_ Malfoy do to make you jinx him?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Making snide comments that probably came out of the Daily Prophet's 'Bad Joke' section."

"Yeah, but what did he actually say?"

"Doesn't matter now," muttered Ron, desperate to change the subject. "Why are you reading that rubbish, anyway?"

Harry picked up his copy of _The Quibbler_ and surveyed it regretfully. "Luna's got a real thing about it. I told her that I really enjoyed it, so she arranged for her father to make me a special offer on the subscription. It's kind of her, really, but _The Quibbler_ – it's not my kind of thing. It would be a waste not to read it, though, and there are some quite interesting articles, like this one on male Veela…"

Ron appreciated that Harry felt sorry for Luna Lovegood, that he could identify with the way that she was taunted and excluded, but at the same time he really felt that she was about as much fun to be with as a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

Nevertheless, the six witches and wizards who'd battled the Death-Eaters at the end of last term had grown a lot closer in the months proceeding. They'd each experienced something extremely traumatic that only the six of them could possibly understand, and there were times – not very often, but occasionally – when they only felt comfortable around each other. Harry, unsurprisingly, had been affected the most noticeably. Sirius's death had been a terrible blow to him, and had thrown him into a great deal of despair and confusion. Ron had begun to suspect that Harry had, for one reason or another, started to lose a little respect for his godfather before his demise, but he would never forget the frantic terror in Harry's voice as he'd yelled that he'd dreamt that Voldemort was torturing Sirius.

Harry's method of coping appeared to involve a lot of sporadic temper changes. One day he'd be quiet, immersed in his thoughts; the next he'd be so incensed with undirected rage that he was unable to concentrate on the simplest spell in Potions. That particular evening, Harry was in his mild-mannered state, and although Ron infinitely preferred this to the sullen Harry, the truth was that he found the whole thing rather bemusing.

Yup, life was complicated.

If Ron had needed proof of Harry's preoccupation, it lay in the complete disappearance of Harry's interest in Cho. For as long as Ron liked to remember, Harry had been _obsessed _with all things Cho Chang. It had been verging on the ridiculous. And though Ron had been initially mocking (especially when Harry had confessed that he and Cho had kissed), towards the end of the year he'd become more sympathetic to his friend's anguish. The reason? Ron was having 'girl trouble' himself, much as he was loathed to admit it.

The one advantage that Harry, during his brief romance with Cho, had had over Ron was that he had been able to ask Hermione, someone he trusted and had personal experience of the workings of the female mind, for advice. Ron, unfortunately, didn't have that luxury…

Of all the girls he'd have expected to fall for, Hermione Granger had previously ranked even lower than Pansy Parkinson. Yet as they'd been confined to the hospital wing, wounded, struggling to come to terms with recent events and with no one but each other for company, they'd predictably bonded.

Naturally, they'd bickered a lot in the process. When Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were put in the same room, it could be guaranteed that within minutes a spectacular argument would break loose. But amongst the necessary aggravation there had been welcome moments of quietude. The topic of conversation had often drifted onto more serious subjects. Having been incredibly close to her for many years, Ron had felt that he had nothing to hide from Hermione. With a little persuasion, he'd been able to confide in her as freely as he was able to confide in himself. He'd openly entrusted her with his insecurities: how he felt that he would never be able to live up to his elder brothers' standards, how betrayed his family all felt by Percy, how he detested his red hair. He went into great, tedious detail about how, throughout his childhood, too many people had knowingly stated, 'Ah, you must be a Weasley,' upon catching sight of his ginger head and hand-me-down-robe, and how it had become something that had made him feel frustratingly stripped of his individuality.

Hermione had listened patiently, and when she'd spoken, he'd been convinced that she wasn't merely reassuring him to spare his feelings. She'd genuinely seemed to believe that he had no reason to harbour these insecurities – well, most of them.

"Red hair's nothing to be embarrassed about," she'd told him matter-of-factly, "it's distinctive. You're lucky. But I can see your point about the tatty robes."

And then she'd shared her secrets with him. At first she'd appeared reluctant, but she'd swiftly decided to willingly ramble on about how she was teased by the other girls for her fascination with schoolwork, how she was shattered by the prejudice against Muggle-borns, and, to Ron's astonishment, how she felt self-conscious about her eyebrows. She'd claimed that she felt that they hardened her facial features and resembled two hairy black caterpillars resting above her eyelids. Ron had told her quite candidly that she was cracked. And although she'd behaved as though she was fed up with him and grumbled, 'Oh, I _knew_ you wouldn't understand,' he could tell that she was bashfully flattered that he didn't find her unattractive.

Fundamentally, Hermione had kept Ron from losing his mind in that hospital wing. Over the holidays they'd spent an increasing amount of time together. And Ron was finding, to his absolute dismay, that he felt more than the purity of friendship for her.

In a bid to maim his feelings, which he was growing ever afraid of, he looked at the situation logically. As if he could ever fall in love with Hermione! I mean, come on. The very concept was utterly absurd. He made an effort to focus on her failings. She was a bossy, arrogant know-it-all. She was ridiculously idealistic, painfully condescending and too sardonic for her own good.

But she was also good-hearted, noble, courageous, compassionate, entertaining, fun to be with and pretty much a wonderful person.

Damn.

So he decided to concentrate on the flaws in her appearance. Good old-fashioned superficiality would surely save him from this wretched fate of unrequited infatuation? Her skin was too pale, her hair was too bushy and her voice was too bossily brash. Unfortunately, he no longer found these imperfections annoying; conversely, he found them endearing. Her skin looked positively bloodless, but that just made her cheeks seem all the rosier when she smiled and blushed. He'd formerly found her hair distinctly unappealingly, but now appreciated the way that the striking brown was softened by the naturally flaxen highlights, and the way that the waves fell beguilingly about her heart-shaped face. And the shrill note in her voice wasn't smugness, just confidence. It had a melodious ring to it.

Damn.

The fact was, he already knew all of Hermione's faults. He'd been her best friend for five years, for goodness' sake. He didn't want to change her, he wanted her just the way she was. He didn't want to exist beside her, he wanted to exist with her. It was quite pathetic, really, but it was the way Ron felt.

Luna, who, it was quite clear to Ron, lived on a totally different planet from the rest of the species (and was probably best left there), remained oblivious to his and Hermione's affinity. Harry had been in an almost constant daze since June, but Ginny had picked up on Ron's feelings and had adopted a vaguely irritating habit of smirking every time that he spoke to Hermione. And Ron would look at Hermione quizzically and Hermione would toss her hair and pretend not to notice. Even though the only way that she couldn't have noticed was if she'd gone temporarily blind, which Ron thought to be most unlikely.

Yup, life was complicated.

He was roused from his thoughts by a chirpy cry of, "Harry Potter, sir!"

Oh, no. Anything but…

"Oh, er, hello, Dobby," said a slightly taken aback Harry. "What are you doing here?"

"Dobby has some most important news for Harry Potter," replied Dobby proudly. "Dobby has heard tell that Dobby's old master's son is baying for Harry Potter's Wheezy's blood!"

Ron cast Harry an outstandingly bewildered look, to which Harry explained in translation of Dobby's Pidgin English, "He's talking about you and Malfoy."

"Dobby's old master's son seemed very angry, sir, but it was hard to tell. His face had big red blotches on it, sir, Dobby couldn't see him properly."

Ron leapt to his feet. "Okay, I get it. Would everyone shut up about it now? Malfoy is going to butcher me. I don't need a house-elf to tell me that!"

Ron stalked out of the common, his face matching the flaming red of his hair. He may have just indulged in a magnificent overreaction, but he was so _exasperated_. If they knew the real reason why he'd hexed Malfoy, they'd be treating him like a martyr, rather than with this sanctimonious behaviour.

He'd done it for Hermione. He'd been defending her, _protecting_ her. Malfoy had gone into his standard rant about Mudbloods, and how if anybody deserved to go to Azkaban it wasn't his father but her scummy family, with their dirty blood…

This had enraged Ron as much as Malfoy's incessant slights on the Weasleys did. In truth, he'd intended to cause a lot more damage, but hey, he wasn't an Auror yet.

Ron faltered in his stride along the corridors for a moment. If Hermione knew the truth, she'd be hopelessly grateful. That was precisely why he hadn't told her. He was terrified – paranoid, in fact –that the mildest portrayal of his affection for or devotion to Hermione might raise suspicions in her mind. He was terrified that she would uncover the depth of his feelings for her. He was terrified that the one thing that he, at the same time, most dreaded and most desired would happen.

Yup, life was complicated.

Thanks for reading it. What did you think? Review!


	2. Music Box

AN: Sorry if this bores you to tears, but I thought that it would be nice to see some security from Hermione, since she always seems like such a competent character. And yes, I know that the ending's a bit flat.

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Hermione toppled onto her bed, thankful to have found the dormitory deserted. She needed solitude, needed to be with her own thoughts. This was quite funny, in fact, since there had been a time when solitude had been the one thing that she'd most despised and dreaded in the world, and when she'd been so alone with her thoughts that she'd felt that they were suffocating her, and that there was no one around to save her…

She took some deep, nasally breaths, punching the pillow underneath her head. Whether she was doing this to plump it up or to vent her exasperation remained unknown.

She was afraid that she was going mad, that she was coping so badly with recent events that she was losing her grip on reality. She was too weak to handle this alone, she should be braver… she'd always prided herself on her strength… she was a Gryffindor, she'd been _made_ a Gryffindor…

Of course, there was a logical part of her that knew that she _wasn't_ weak, that she was coping as well as she knew how and that she couldn't expect to allow her emotions to fester and keep her sanity at the same time. But Hermione Granger was not used to pressure. She'd always kept on top of her fears and emotions, always. In her eyes, stress was another form of failure.

There were several forms of failure in Hermione's harsh mind. Anger was a form of failure, because you shouldn't allow things to bite through your exterior and rile you. Pain and sadness were both forms of failure. Tears were anti-medals, the most damning proof of frailty that Hermione could think of. And so she ended each day with another personal disgrace, another reason to hate herself. Everybody gets irked from time to time (especially those who socialise with Ronald Weasley), everybody feels pain, everybody weeps. Even if you're a witch, you can't expect to defy human nature.

But Hermione did.

Her expectations of herself, not to mention of others, were impossibly high. She'd already ruled out the prospect of becoming a teacher upon leaving Hogwarts, because she couldn't bear the thought of enforcing her own expectations upon innocent children. She'd been an innocent once, anticipating nothing more from herself than to scrape the highest mark in Transfiguration class. She'd pressured herself more than most children her age, but it had been a realistic kind of pressure. Positive pressure.

Not like this.

She really hadn't meant to be so short with Ron. If he truly _had_ attacked Malfoy purely for fun, then he was the sort of senseless troublemaker that she didn't want to waste her time with. But she doubted this; she was convinced that there was something more to it. She could have shown more patience, coaxed an answer out of him. Instead, she'd stalked off and kissed goodbye to any chances of finding out the truth.

She was aware that she was beating herself up again, but this time it was justified. She should have listened properly to Ron; she _would_ have listened properly to Ron, if she'd been the old Hermione. The Hermione who'd laughed a real laugh, not a hollow one. The Hermione whom she missed so much.

She was sceptical as to whether Ron and Harry had detected her recent all-encompassing harassment. She'd done a creditable job of hiding her true feelings; anything less would have been a failure on her part, naturally. She'd coped so well after battling the Death-Eaters; it had been partly down to spending time with Ron, but partly down to what she'd later realised to be denial. She'd begun suffering delayed shock, and the shock had soon turned to bitter, bitter fury.

Why had she received so little sympathy? Why had everybody's pity been reserved for _poor_ Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived? Ordinarily she was above such petty jealousy, but there were days when it felt like she'd played no role in defeating Voldemort's servants at all.

Ron was all right; he had a large family who understood just how terrible facing a Death-Eater would be. Hermione's parents were too preoccupied with their own problems to worry about such frivolous things as the near-death of their only daughter.

She didn't like to recall the arguments, but even less did she like to recall the silences. There'd been such hostility between her parents over the summer; sometimes it had felt as though they were trying to wound one another with looks of pure ambivalence. She'd been able to escape, often to spend time with Ron, and still be able to return home at the end of the day, reassured that her parents' marriage had survived another twenty-four hours. But then she'd been unceremoniously bundled on a train to Hogwarts, with scant communication with her family, left to dread the owl that she was terrified would arrive with the devastating news that her mother and father were no longer together…

Hermione had been presented with a situation that couldn't be righted by a charm or spell, or by her own wealth of knowledge. And it made her feel powerless, knowing that this, the one thing that she cared about most in the world, was something that she couldn't fix, not on her own…

This, coupled with the confusion and neglect that she was feeling over the aftermath of the events of June, was driving Hermione to certain insanity. Add to the concoction some unexpected chemical feelings for her best mate and you've got a valid excuse for a bed next to Lockhart's in St. Mungo's.

She really, really, really hadn't meant to fall for Ron. Really. It hadn't proved to be one of her more ingenious ideas. Yet the fact remained that the one person in he world that she felt was secure with was, well, Ron. She was never happier than when she was joking with Ron, or working with Ron, or idly arguing with Ron, or _confiding_ in Ron. And sometimes - rarely, but sometimes - she saw him look at her as if yes, he had feelings for her that were a little deeper than those that teenage boys regularly feel when presented with any member of the female species. He looked at her as though he - fancied her? Respected her? Treasured her?

Regardless, it never failed to make Hermione's heart do a back flip - before sinking to somewhere below her knees. Because when she looked at it rationally, she knew that Ron saw her solely as a bossy, opinionated, bushy-haired friend of his who was nothing compared to Cho Chang or Marietta Edgecombe (pre-acne).

Hermione wasn't used to being so unbearably melancholy, so insecure. It was a strain, this constant depression; she wanted, just for a few dimly glistening moments, to feel safe and weightless again…

She rose unsteadily to her feet. She didn't normally do things unsteadily; she did them stubbornly, energetically, or pensive. She was becoming more unsteady a person, more fragile, by the day.

Opening the gold-edged doors of her wardrobe, she reached to pick up a small, drably-coloured biscuit tin that was tucked into the corner. Using the corner of her robe to wipe dust from its top, she removed the lid and began to she began to rifle through the hotchpotch of childish, useless trinkets that she kept in there. Things that reminded her of her life as a Muggle. A thimble that had belonged to her grandmother… a gleaming marble… a tiny straw hat that had belonged to her favourite doll...

Finally her fingers closed around a small, oval-shaped box. It felt pleasantly cold inside her clammy hands… she replaced the lid of the tin and shuffled back over to sit on her bed.

She examined the intricate decoration of the box. She'd never looked at It, never felt the _need_ to look at it, for a long time. It wasn't much larger than a hen's egg. It was a pearly white, with pretty bronze shapes printed elegantly around the catch. Carefully, she unclasped it with her fingers and watched it open gradually. A miniature figure dressed in a tutu began to revolve slowly on a bronze plate. Faint, ambrosial music drifted from the box, so familiar to Hermione's ears…

Her mother had suggested that she take the music box with her when she first went to boarding school. It would soothe her homesickness, she'd claimed wisely.

Hermione had scoffed and assured her mother, quite condescendingly, that she would be fine at Hogwarts, and that she would be grateful for the independence. And sure enough, there had been few times when she'd felt so desperate for a connection to her childhood that she'd wanted to listen to the haunting tune of the music box.

But now the simple melody was enough to transport her back to a time of naivete, a time where words like 'Mudblood' and 'Death-Eater' were meaningless nonsense. The music box was comforting, quirky and familiar, and sounded adorably sweet.

Yet she didn't need it anymore.

She had Harry. She had Ginny. Most of all, she had Ron.

Ron was comforting. Ron was quirky - to say that was a grave understatement. Ron was familiar to her. And Ron was utterly, bizarrely sweet.

Ron could be her music box.

Hermione snapped the box shut and placed it atop her bedside cabinet. She got to her feet and slipped her shoes on. If she moved fast enough, she could catch Ron in the common room and ruthlessly probe him until he cracked.

"Right, Ron Weasley," she muttered determinedly under her breath, "I'm going to find out why you've become so suddenly jinx-happy. And don't expect to be able to fob me off by insulting me mercilessly, because I'm onto you…"

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AN: Okay, now - review. Please. I'm begging!


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